Fractured
by PPP SSC
Summary: Moe owes all his misfortune to his face, and tries to remove it from view at all costs. WARNING: Some sexual themes and suicidal thoughts involved.


Fractured

A countertop sparkles with a new finish. Sad, really. I look down and see my reflection. My reflection scares me and I scare my reflection. Quickly, I put a cloth napkin over the shininess of the countertop. Opaque blockage to the view of my face gives me false confidence. But false confidence is more than no confidence at all.

I dust the shelves on my liquor cabinet, but the window shows me my face once again. I shove it closed violently, and glass shatters on the floor. I walk over to the broom and dustpan and clean it up, but as I look down, I see the reflection in the glass. I sweep it up and quickly throw it in the trash. I wanted to get a drink before anyone else came in, but I remembered my draught was broken. SPREEEEEY! The beer moistened my shirt and fell out on the floor. I looked down at myself in the brown reflection and smacked at it with my hand. But it did not harm the reflection, only my hand. So I was on my way to the back room where I could get some ice for my hands, when I slipped and fell over the beer.

It was a butt-landing, and didn't hurt that much, but I was forced to stare at that face. That face. If it wasn't for THAT FACE I'd never be a… a… a virgin this late in life! I'm a bartender, for crying out loud! I should have been able to impress one… just ONE… girl! But girls are smarter than that, and they don't look at me and think "I want to lay that guy". They look at me and think, "Eww… an oversized naked mole rat".

Sadness, anger, rage, depression, fear, pity, envy, desperation, and hopelessness; all emotions related only to my face. So I came up with a solution. I would hide under the guise of dark glasses and a veil, and no one would ever see my face again. Problem solved.

As soon as I put my dark glasses and a veil on, the mechanic showed up. "I called you to fix my draught a week ago!" I said impatiently, "Where have you been?"

"Well, I was told that you were a rather… umm…" he said nervously. The problem with people under 40 is they're afraid to admit the truth.

"Ugly? Hideous? Repulsive? Repellent? Repugnant? Hard on the eyes?" I provided more options than most thesauruses. He sighed, fixed the draught quickly and efficiently, and as he left he gave me a phone number.

I had seen that number so many times I had it memorized. I had called it but once, and the representative on the other end (who I believe got fired), was not helping. He said something along the lines of, "Wow, your life really DOES suck! It looks like you don't really WANT my help. If you get caught in the act, this conversation never happened."

But with these dark glasses and this veil, I would never have to think about offing myself again, and these digits were of no use to me. However, I hadn't thought through the eventual effects of the items. That night, Homer came in for a drink. He looked at me and shrieked, "AAAAAAAAAAAH! Foul assailant, what have you done with Moe?"

"Homer, it's me." I said. But I could tell from his continuous screaming he was either not listening or disbelieving me.

"OH MY GOD! You ATE Moe! Moe, hang on, I'll get you out of there," and he took his pocketknife and held it up to my throat.

I shrugged. No big loss if he succeeded, right? I mean, this disguise was to help me gain more confidence but death still sounded pretty good. But apparently my apathy to near-death gave me away. Homer withdrew his knife and asked, in a surprised tone, "Moe?" I removed the glasses and veil showing once again the world's biggest mistake in a face. But for some reason, Homer looked happy. Maybe it was better for me to be showing my face in public. It may not be a brilliant work of architecture, but it definitely identifies the area.

The next day, all the normal barflies came in for beers. And Homer said, reaching his glass to the sky, "Let's hear it for Moe! The bartender with the looks required to make anyone feel better about their own." Yeah, yeah. Toast that, why don't you? It's not like I care. I know already how ugly I am. But… ugliness in and of itself may not be the worst thing in the world. It's surely not the only flaw that matters in the long run. No, because I'm a gullible cranky-boots too. No one wants a gullible cranky-boots, and even fewer people want a gullible UGLY cranky-boots. So tomorrow, I would end myself. There was no way out.

I aimed my shotgun right at my face saying, "This is it! Goodbye, you horrible thing!"

And then I saw her… walking into my bar, ordering a martini, sitting down by me, and she said, "Hey, don't do that. I know a phone number that could help you with…"

"I KNOW! I KNOW! I tried that once and it didn't WORK, okay?" I yelled, not realizing what she wanted.

"You're never really as ugly as you feel…" she said, "You may have a deformed face, but it's not that bad. You've got a nice figure… a nice head of curly hair… and a great sense of fashion."

"Thanks" I said to her, "But I can't accept false compliments."

"Who said they were false?" she asked. And that was the night I lost my virginity. And frankly, I'd never been happier.


End file.
